


Antivan Massage

by WolffyLuna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Banter, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Tabris is tired, sore and has a very inconviently placed bruise, and Zevran tries to help.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Tabris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Antivan Massage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowsapiens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/gifts).



Tabris collapsed next to the campfire, thankful he didn’t fall face first into it, because facial burns would definitely make things worse. Maybe not by much, but still.

He was sore and exhausted and those melded together into a tired and ineffectual hatred of the world. Everything was too bright and too dark and people were talking too loudly and everyone was too quiet and it was making it hard to think. Birds chirped their twilight song. Fuck those birds.

They’d gotten up at the arse crack of dawn, walked over a mountain, and then took a diversion into a nest of Darkspawn. There, he learned the important lesson that while you _can_ sneak up on an ogre, if you don’t finish it off in one strike, doing so was not a _great_ _idea_.

Which he learned by being flung into a tree. At speed.

Wynne and health poultices meant that his ribs where in the right places and in once piece—which he appreciated, he wouldn’t make a peep of anything to the contrary-- but trying not to use too many of their limited and precious poultices left him with a nasty, dinner-plate sized bruise. Which he then proceeded to walk for several more hours with, until the light started to fade. Followed by setting up a tent, accidentally braining himself on a pole because he was tired and clumsy (only lightly, thankfully, but his dignity was already more bruised than his ribs), somehow pulling some of those bruised muscles, and then collapsing in an undignified heap in front of the fire.

Today—today could go die in a hole.

Zevran walked over to him, deliberately scuffing his boots against the ground so he was not eerily silent.

Tabris appreciated that. He didn’t have the energy to properly startle, but the thought counted.

Zevran clicked his tongue. “My friend, you look—”

“—like reheated death?”

Zevran squatted down beside him. “I was going to say ‘exhausted’, because I do intend to stay in your good books.”

“Flatterer.” It was meant to be a light-hearted jab, but it came out flat and tired.

“You know what you need? Someone to take you into your tent, and show you the massage skills one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse.”

That was definitely an escalation in flirting. No, that was definitely a _come on_. The entirety of his flirting career had been with Zevran, but he wasn’t a fool. And in that case, he should probably gently decline. If Zevran was picturing a night of wild! acrobatic! sex, he had another think coming, due to the dual factors of his inexperience and _ow_. Every part of him was either sore, exhausted, or both, which he doubted was conducive to such plans.

But he had heard tell on the winds that massages were generally good for the above problem of being made of tiredness and pain, and maybe he was having too high an opinion of Antivan brothels, but presumably that kind of massage got covered? Hopefully?

“Sure. Yes. Let’s,” he said as he attempted to lever himself up, annoyed his abused rib muscles, nearly fell over, crab walked backwards as he tried to catch himself, and then actually fell over.

Zevran made an expression. Possibly the expression of a man who’s just seen a glaring problem with his plan and is trying to work out how to salvage the situation. Possibly the expression of someone who just watched their – partner? friend with potential benefits? Something along those lines?—agree to a proposition and then fall over backwards mid-agreement.

He walked over to him, holding out his hands.

Tabris expected him to be offering him an arm to brace against as he stood up.

Instead, Zevran scooped him up like either a sack of tubers or a dead body-- depending on whether you were thinking about how you were somehow even tireder than that one summer where you worked at a turnip warehouse, or the fact that Zevran was an assassin.

Tabris definitely did not squeak in surprise. Definitely. No one heard any high-pitched noises, and if there were any high-pitched noises, those were the noises of a passing mouse being scooped up by an owl.

Zevran carried him over to his tent, masterfully managed to open the flap one handed, and laid him out on the bedroll on his stomach. He set to removing Tabris’ clothes and armour with what could best be described as 'practiced efficiency'. 

Tabris was surprisingly little help.

Zevran sat down next to to him, the bedroll settling beneath his weight. He put his hand on his ankle. His hands were warm and calloused but surprisingly gentle, as that touch turned to pressure to working out the knots. He moved his hands down slightly, strong thumbs pulling the muscles of his arch back to where they should be.

It was somewhat painful, but in a good way? Somewhere between the soft fizz of muscles after a reasonable amount of exertion, or sharp pain of a lanced boil followed by the fading pressure and inflammation. A pain that foreshadowed a quickly following relief.

Tabris sighed into the pillow. “I am very glad that was not entirely innuendo.”

Zevran chuckled, as he worked his way up and broke up a frankly impressive knot in one of his calves with neat circular motions of his hands. “I have many skills, my friend. It would be a shame not to share them with you. Though maybe not all at once, yes?”

“We’ll see—Maker, that feels good. You have magic hands. Someone tell the Circle; we have another apostate running around.”

“While I am sure the Chantry would appreciate my services, I am not giving them anything while I have the chance to turn you into a puddle.” He worked his way up Tabris’ thighs, more gentle than before, taking into account the amount of walking he had just done. But even with the light pressure, Tabris could feel his leg muscles untensing, going from their unhappy soreness to a more contended tiredness.

His hands slowly wandered up. Tabris had no complaints—his buttocks were muscles, and they were sore, and while Zevran’s aim may have been groping for his own purposes, it was still helping.

He shifted so he was sitting over Tabris’ hips, and started working on his shoulders, dodging the giant bruise. Which meant he was mostly working the knots out of one side of his back. But lopsided relief was much, _much_ better than nothing. He could feel each individual muscle relaxing, tension that he had never even noticed before being pulled out of him and it was divine.

Tabris settled further into the pillow and bedroll, and tried his best to not actually fall asleep. “Do I ever have to leave? Your hands are too good.”

Another chuckle. “While _I_ certainly would have no complaints about sharing a tent with you for the rest of time, I’m not sure Thedas would.”

“A day then? The Blight can at least wait a _day.”_ He sighed contentedly again. “If I knew massages were this good, I would’ve tried to get one sooner. Dropped boulder sized hints. Something like that.”

“You have not had a massage before? Either kind?” Zevran sounded incredulous, like he’d just heard him claim to have never worn shoes before.

“When would I have gotten one, exactly?”

“Surely a handsome elf such as yourself would have had people falling over themselves to touch you. People looking for any excuse.”

“There was fawning, certainly. But not anything further than that.” If he was flattering himself, he would have said he came across as too competent and handsome, the bad boy with a rebellious streak and the best stories behind his scars, that he became a bit unattainable. If he was being a bit more realistic, he’d been a bit too aloof, too quick with a joke and too slow with getting close, for anyone to decide it was worthwhile closing the distance. “Didn’t even get a ‘practice’ kiss, unlike some lucky sods I could mention.”

Like Soris, the cheeky bastard.

“Don’t tell me you were saving that for marriage, my friend? That would have been waste.” He said it like a joke, but Tabris could tell it was an actual question.

And, well, he sort of was. Not in the sense of ‘saving’ himself for marriage, but more waiting and seeing no reason to push the schedule ahead. “Nah, I had some elaborate plans to run off into the woods and find myself a charming assassin.”

He grinned. “Well, I’m certainly happy to help plans come to fruition.”

“Good, because if you keep doing that to my back, I _will_ fall asleep. Which I won’t mind, but you might.”

“I’m sure you would as well. We really should rectify this soon.” Zevran rolled him over, with more grace and aplomb than Tabris thought was possible with manhandling a floppy pile of limbs. “Never even been _kissed_ —” he muttered, like it was completely unbelievable, like it was somehow impossible that no one had ever tried that with him before.

“I’m sure there are people much older and much prettier than me who haven’t been kissed either.”

Zevran gently stroked along his jaw. “Ah, but none of them are quite so accessible, my dear warden.”

Tabris tried to sit up, to help Zevran and meet him halfway, but something is his rib muscles twisted and he fell back. “You’re—you’re gonna have to come over here.”

Zevran smiled. “If the sea won’t meet the sailor—” He leaned forward, until he was lying on Tabris’ chest, masterfully avoiding the bruise, and pinning him.

With a bit of leverage and determination, he could maybe dislodge him—but why would he want to? In theory, being pinned by an assassin was not something conducive to a long life. But he trusted Zevran. Stupidly, maybe. Or maybe sensibly trusting that if he was going to get a knife in his back, Zevran already had had plenty of opportunities beforehand. He was too tired and relaxed to care.

Zevran’s lips brushed against his, gently, almost tickling. He could feel the smile more than he could see it. Zevran breathed against him, and he could feel his breath hot against his face, the rhythmic pressure of his chest as it moved, the warm weight pushing him further down.

And then he actually kissed him. Properly, with weight behind it, harder than the previous feather light touch.

It was just skin and against skin. Two people touching. Nothing more. Completely mundane.

And it was divine. Soft lips against soft lips, nerve endings crackling to life on the most sensitive point of each of their faces. And the burning knowledge of the fact that this was the first time it had happened, and he should savour it, try and record every detail and subtly into his memory, that turned the banality of mammal heat into something to be watched and observed and relished in.

He lifted his arm up—every limb was heavy but his arms were the least—and wrapped it over Zevran’s shoulder, trying to pull him closer, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair. He tried to follow along with the kiss, thread the needle between pliant and getting in the way, all while not being entirely sure what the right level of responsive was. But it was still good. Could be better. But that was what practice was for.

Zevran pulled away to breathe, but kept his face bare inches away from Tabris’. “You’re a quick learner.”

He flashed a smile that was maybe more lopsided than he intended. “All thanks to a good teacher.”

“I am going to have a lot of fun showing you new things. Later. Not much point reducing you to a boneless puddle when you already are one, wouldn’t you say?”

“Fair." Because he was still at risk of falling asleep at any moment, and didn't have the greatest ability to move. "But I _will_ hold you to that. When I can stand up and chase you down.”

Zevran rolled off him, and curled up next to him on the spare inches of bedroll. He barked a laugh. “That will not be necessary, I assure you.”

“Still gonna hold you to it,” Tabris said, as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
